“That sounds good to me,” observed Nick; but only suspicious looks were cast in his direction; for well they knew that the word “camp” with Buster was another way of spelling “eat.”
“How far would we be from the city at the rapids, then?” asked Herb, as they once more started.
“Oh, we could make it in a few hours,” Jack replied, “if all went well. Keep to the right of that smaller island. That belongs to Michigan. Some use the other channel; but we’ll take this one. You see, St. Joseph’s Island is all of fifteen miles long, and pretty wild in parts. Ought to be good hunting here in season.”
“Don’t I wish it was in season, then,” said Nick, smacking his lips. “Always have wanted to eat some venison from Canada right in camp. Say, fellows, if a silly old deer just went and committed suicide before our very eyes, by jumping over a precipice, wouldn’t we have a right to get a haunch from his bally old carcase?”
“Well,” laughed Jack, “if a Canadian game warden found you in possession he’d take you in. So just forget all you’ve ever heard about juicy venison. It’s dry and tough stuff at the best, and couldn’t compare with that Mackinac steak you bought.”
Nick sighed.
“And we have to wait till tomorrow noon before we are in touch with a market, do we? I don’t ever see how we’re going to pull through. Tell you what, somebody ought to try for fish here when we stop. Looks like bass might hang around waiting for a chance to jump into the pan. How about that, Jack?”
“Just what I had made my mind to try,” smiled the other, who liked nothing better than bringing his rod into play when there was a chance for game fish.
After a while George announced that he could see what looked like the end of the big island ahead.
“And here’s a pretty decent place to pull in,” declared Herb.